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I’ve whined about my weight since age six: about how it wasn’t my fault I couldn’t stop eating; how my family’s concern for my health was insulting to my character; how I lacked the ability to determine whether my hunger was caused by boredom or an actual vacancy in my stomach; how, somewhere between then and now, beginning and middle, unhealthy and healthy, I discovered that men and food filled the same void in my soul.

I couldn’t understand why my family didn’t just love me unconditionally. Who cares how many cookies I had? Why did it cause family drama when I had pasta for a snack? Why was it a problem when I sat around all day after school watching TV?

My brother expressed concern about my weight this past January, during my first winter break as a Binghamton University student. I told him not to worry, that I wasn’t going to stress about my weight at that point in time. Defensively, I continued: “I mean, honestly, boys think I’m hot. Like, I’ve made out with boys. I’ve had boyfriends.”

This was, I believe, the crux of my refusal to lose weight. I couldn’t see anything from my own eyes; I only cared about the perceptions of others. I couldn’t fathom why I should have to put in work to change my body when boys were already interested in me. But that’s the whole point: putting in work to change your body has nothing to do with anyone else’s interest. We need to work to better our bodies because we must do everything we can to love ourselves. We need to view our bodies through our own eyes, not through the eyes of others. I don’t think it’s possible to be happy with yourself if you’re unhappy with the body you’re in.

Only now can I consciously acknowledge how inordinately upset my brother’s concern made me. I could feel the anxiety caused by confronting my biggest flaw — my health — taking control. I put off all effort to change, reiterating to my brother that I would do it later. He then reminded me that ever since elementary school, I had been using this same excuse. He was right; in seventh grade, I told a friend I would lose weight when I got to summer camp, to which the friend replied, “Why don’t you just do it now?” That summer, I decided I would just lose the weight before high school. When high school began, I actually did start to lose some weight from playing field hockey and lacrosse. But by the end of my sophomore year, I discovered that sports were not my forte; I was terrified of lacrosse balls and I was the goalie. So I quit. By senior year, I had gained the weight back.

When my family began to express major concern for my health this past winter break, I was 5 foot 2 and weighed 189 pounds. I began to panic, and I had the epiphany I’d been waiting for. How could I be happy in my body if I was clearly not treating it with respect? Furthermore, if I wasn’t happy with myself, why was I making excuses? If my weight didn’t bother me, I could just be. But, as it turns out, my weight was the biggest provoker of my anxiety. So, after 18 years of excuses, I decided to take control of my own life. I challenged myself to become healthy.

It’s been eight months since I changed my life — eight months since I decided to try to love myself — and I’ve shed 36 pounds of self-disrespect. Upon finishing an incredible dinner of grilled chicken, asparagus and sweet potato, I ask myself: am I still hungry? Finally, the answer is no.